


Tributaries

by karrenia_rune



Category: The Wind in the Willows - Kenneth Grahame
Genre: Gen, Howler Monkey, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-13
Updated: 2015-05-13
Packaged: 2018-03-30 09:36:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3931960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/karrenia_rune/pseuds/karrenia_rune





	Tributaries

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sunchales](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sunchales/gifts).



"Tributaries" 

He was sweating underneath his thick coat of fur but then so was everyone else on their craft so at least he had some company in his misery, but on the other hand, a little perspiration was a small price to pay for this latest leg in his grand adventure, was it not?

He’d been at some pains to secure not only his conveyance but also to find a guide willing to take this bend in the river, and who has knowledge about the terrain, its snarls, flora, and fauna and was willing to take him with him on his scouting mission. 

Oh, King Water Rat did not mind at all that Mr. Howler Monkey had requested as part and parcel of his passage that every so often he would be required to bail out the bottom of their boat whenever it happened to fill up with a certain quantity of water that the other thought unsafe. 

He had learned from rather unfortunate experience not to dangle his feet in the water no matter how inviting and cool it had looked, a turtle had bitten his toe. At other times, when they camped on the shore nothing had happened and he was able to cool off a bit. 

The turtle, whom he at first had taken for a rather large rock what with its mottled black-grey-on black hard shell before it had begun to move, had very smartly and properly apologized and King Water Rat had accepted with good grace, and watched the turtle sink back into the mud of the river bottom.

At the moment he was plaiting water reeds into a vague semblance of a hat with which to provide shade for his head while his companion was studying the map, while he, in turn, his attention only have on his weaving,  
studied the river. It was wide and winding, and it bigger much bigger than any river that he had ever seen, and he had seen a good many, but none that he had ever seen, or been on, could compare to this one. 

It also appeared to have taken on some of the characteristics of a chameleon he had dealt with at the supply depot: for the rive seemed to have the ability to change color to suit the hour of the day: at dawn it took on the color of molten gold and red; several hours later it was a blue as a robin’s egg; then at high noon, it changed to a blue-green color. 

When it rained, which it did frequently in this humid country, the river changed to a pewter color like liquid silver. He had thought it much like that if a way could be found to take that liquid silver and bottle it up in mass quantities he could sell it a good price to the artisans or often the black-smiths back home and make a fortune.

Alas, he sighed, it was not to be. There probably was most likely some kind of taboo, or ill-fortune or some such superstitious nonsense among the locals that would seriously hamper such a scheme, so he thought no more of it. Still, it teased at the back corner of his thoughts, with fragments of the silver ewers of water, or silver ink pots he would bring back as presents.

All things considered, he much preferred this open stretch of the river to the encompassing giant tree pillars through which they had passed.  
King Water Rat would never admit this to anyone but when they had floated past those parts he had felt more intimidated, more closed in and threatened that he had ever felt in his entire adventurous life.  
He had not been afraid, not him, far from it, he thought to himself. “Hah! I laugh in the face of danger! Danger, what of it,’ he snapped his fingers and tossed his head back, “Danger had best be afraid of me!’ he thought, barring his large, blunt, but still very sharp teeth.  
It had not been all bad:

He had once seen the largest rodent-like creature, whom his guide had called a tapir. The tapir had a long elephant-like snout and it dug for roots and insects and seemed disinclined to engage in conversation when he had hailed it in friendly greeting.

He had seen uncountable clouds of multi-colored butterflies swooping and darting along invisible thermals in the air, like a jigsaw puzzle come to life. 

A cat, a little larger than the tame, domesticated counterparts he had known back in England, crossed their path at one point when the meeting of the river’s and its sundry tributaries had forced them to abandon the water for the nonce and take to carrying their boat overland, eyed them. 

Mr. Howler Monkey had calmly informed that this was an Ocelot, a shy but vain creature much given to playing games of come hither and go away with others of its kind and smaller animals, he had also go one to shrug his shoulders and add, “What can you expect of such a creature, it is, after all, a cat.”

Rat supposed that as strange as much of this adventure had been there must still be some kind of universal constant, and cats, were still cats wherever one found them.  
King Water Rat sighed and plunked the half-completed hat on his head and walked over to where his companion sat perched on a boulder, tapping the other on the shoulder, “What now, Oh, guide?”

Mr. Howler Monkey started and seemed to come out of whatever kind of waking trance that he had been in. “What? 

“I asked what we were going to do now?” 

“Oh, as to that, I think it likely that we shall continue on as we are going, barring any sudden monsoons. It is not the rainy season, but all the same, it’s best not to take any chances.”

“Oh, quite, indeed,” replied King Water Rat, clambering into their craft as instructed, settling into the bow and shuffling around a bit to make room for oil-daubed duffle back and adjusting the lie of his knife where it had been strapped to his waist. He was hungry, but he ignored the grumbling protests of his stomach.

“Get back in the boat and I’ll cut somewhat that I can use a pole; the ones we have are all warped and practically useless,” replied Mr. Howler Monkey.

Just then a piercing shriek echoed through the air, so loud and distressing was it, it reminded King Water Rat of the squeal of a small hapless animal caught by a predator. 

His guide, much less affected, appeared to be vainly attempting to ignore it, but could entirely hide his discomfiture. For he had wrapped his tail around his torso and was shaking his head, and scratching at an itch on the lower left corner of his flank.

“What in the name of a name was that wretched noise?” 

“Nothing I assure you,” called Mr, Howler Monkey over his shoulder

“Nothing, my left foot!” cried King Water Rat.

Mr. Howler Monkey at last relented and went on to explain: “Okay! If you must know; it was just a rather disagreeable branch of my family tree having yet another squabble. This is why I try to avoid family reunions as much as I possibly can.”

“Family reunions?” queried King Water Rat.

“Yes, cried the other as he finished cutting, removing the excess oil palm leaves and hauling back an armful of branches with which to use as poles, “You know how it is, all of the mothers, fathers, little brats, and assorted aunts, uncles, cousins, second cousins, and third cousins once removed all jockeying for favored spaces on the branches of and talking all at once. It is an extremely wretched business, all together.”

“I can’t imagine it,” replied King Water Rat, wondering what it would be like to be a member of such a large family, and wondering if he would ever have such a thing in his own life.  
It was a powerful idea and once it had gotten hold of his mind, it proved difficult to let go. For one thing, he might mean finding a suitable wife and then having children, which was fine enough by itself. But how would go about that? And then it also would mean giving up his life of wild and wanderlust adventure and settling down; could he do that? Would he even want to?

For the nonce the questions were pushed to a back corner of his mind as he took turns poling their boat, or calling out where river’s silvery skin hid rocks underneath the surface, and would surely capsize or damage their craft. All the same, this had been a thoroughly wonderful adventure, warts and worries, and all.

 

Disclaimer: Wind in the Willows and the characters who appear here and the verse which they inhabit are the original creations of Kenneth Grahame. They do not belong to me,  
with the minor exception of Mr. Howler Monkey, the other critters are simply denizens of the tropical rainforest.


End file.
